We all have a place we frequent
Like the upscale coffee shop down the high street
Where (pseudo)intellectuals like to meet
Over coffee, books, and (as they claim) their wit
Or the small dingy pub tucked away in small corners
With little light, a low ceiling and limited seats
The odd crowd, cheap drinks, and a hangover guaranteed
Some, it's wide open spaces like parks
Set up a little picnic and watch the stars
Or sleep beneath the faint afternoon sun
Others seek the therapy of retail
Cashmere sweaters and preppy coattails
With evenings downed in fancy cocktails
Sometimes I feel like standing on the edge and flying high
With the world so little around
Lights blinking and dancing in the distance
Skyscraper silhouettes barely recognizable in an instant
But mostly, there is a place I frequent
When there is real cause for celebration
When it feels like nothing could go wrong
Almost as if the stars were placed in the sky
So I could reach up to pluck them
Save myself a little of their glow
Whenever the times feel like hitting hard
On nights that feel empty and alone
When there seems to be no way out of misery and doubt
And all the questions go unanswered
It only gets better
Even without beer
Or long drags and puffs in between
Because being in that place
Seated on the steps
Has become the sole real cause for celebration
There is that feeling of a fleeting, momentary escape
Almost as if actually slipping away
Into the night, away from the worries of the day
I have learned to recognize that feeling of escape
Seated on the steps
And staring at the sky
Right there, down the hall past the heavy metal door
In the fire exit.
